


Reveries

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-09 00:53:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11658213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Bored, alone, she occupies herself with memories.





	Reveries

It’s going to be hours before she gets back to the capital ship. Normally, she wouldn’t be off alone: there’d be a cadre of troopers with her, and she’d be tasked with something that required military insight and command.

Not… personal missions.

It’s not that she minds, as such. It’s just… hard for her to accept. Before _him_ , there had been no real thing as ‘personal’, other than her dreams. Her life had been busily occupied with duties, and she had been fine with that.

It’s still a little strange, the guilty feeling that possibly she’s doing something _wrong_. He is - and always will be - her technical superior. His command - however frivolous it _might_ seem - is still Duty.

The tension will always be there, unresolved. It lends a little excitement to even the smallest of permitted transgressions, the odd sensation of being both wrong and right at once. 

So she is alone. It would not do to pull him from his busy schedule just because she is… lonely? No. Not lonely. Alone.

There are hours to go before she returns. Hours, and more space to cross than light could manage in her whole lifetime. It streaks past her field of vision, and she wonders what worlds are invisible past the light of their stars. Wonders whether she is passing anywhere she has been, and if anyone down there remembers her, still.

Phasma joined the Order young, and never looked back. She remembers _before_ , remembers some people, though they are more what they did than their name. The faces have faded, only the interactions and the emotions remain. 

Far more does she remember of those inside the Order. Most were numbers, with names they picked in secret for themselves. Names that set them apart, but were hidden from a superior’s critical ear. She understands the need for that, the need for a ‘self’, and as long as it does not come to be too much, she turns a blind eye, and stuffs a deaf ear to all those who choose to carve a little selfhood out of white plastoid. After all, _she_ is no string of numbers after opening letters.

Further into her memories come people, real people. Brothers (and some sisters) in arms. Hands she’s pulled out of ditches and mud… and hands she’s had to leave behind, bloodied and scratching if they weren’t able to save themselves. 

You learn to get close, but not too close. Just close enough to notice, but not so close you care. 

It’s the same in bedsports, or it was. Before. She’d see to her own needs alone if given the time and relative privacy for it, and other times she’d sneak a half hour or longer with a like-minded individual. 

These people are not just formless voids around milestones and emotions, but faces, smiles, sounds. She remembers the first woman she rubbed against, grinding until her labia hurt from the rubbing. She remembers the linen-sweet scent of her hair as her teeth sunk warningly into her earlobe. She remembers the glorious bliss of hands that were not her own fighting to get her off, and the way she’d had to choke down the cry of bliss.

Several cries. In short succession.

She remembers the ache in her shoulder the day after, from fucking her fingers into another woman, from bouncing against her mount as she’d brought her partner off. She remembers the warm chocolate of her eyes, and the way one breast seemed slightly higher than the other, but both of them tasted like victory in her mouth.

She was the first, but not the last, nor the only. They’d shared a bunk, or a stolen slice of real estate (both temporal and physical) multiple times, though she hasn’t seen her in years, now. 

Phasma remembers the last time they met up, when they’d learned through trial and error how to pleasure one another better. Lips and teeth and tongue all working together, listening to her breathing break like a storm as they kept their passions as close to silent as possible. The taste of her juices, the clench of thighs around her face… the feel of her tongue, so soft compared to the fingers that fucked her so raw she knew she’d feel the aftershocks for days…

Of all her lovers, only her and Kylo had ever truly made her knees weak. Others had been satisfying enough, but…

She wonders what Lord Ren would think, knowing the memory of another - a woman - echoes through the muscle memory of her climaxes. Wonders if he’d be angry, aroused, or both. Her juices start to flow at the thought of it, and she tilts her hips, moving to press herself into the scooped shape of her seat. The gentle hum of the hyperspace engine isn’t enough vibration to do more than titillate her, but she knows she’s making her clothing damp with her lust. No one here can see her knees spread, or watch the darkening fabric. No one can smell the scent of her lust. 

The cockpit is much too warm, and she doesn’t… she’s on _duty._ She’s working. She’s in an Order vessel (but when is she not?). She shouldn’t be… amusing herself. 

(No one is here. No one can know. There is nothing else useful she can be doing…)

It’s more fun to let her imagination wander, first. To let her body react to nothing more than thought, to feel the way her lips spread and her fluid drips out from that wanting space inside of her. To turn herself on with nothing more than her mind…

She imagines herself torn between them both, forced to ‘choose’. The endless patience of another woman, or the firebrand heat of a Knight of Ren. The fingers and tongue and toys, or the gushing of a cock flooding her with its own fluids… Her first lover couldn’t read her mind, it was only the time between them that gave her the abilities that Kylo took for granted. And a woman… a woman could understand how it felt, in ways Kylo could only ever glimpse at…

Her hand itches to touch herself, to trace over patterns she remembers others describing. To grind the base of her thumb at the pulsing heartbeat in her clit, to slice between her lips and part herself wide to the feel of the air. Around and around and around before she ever penetrates herself…

…a flash of memory, of their eyes meeting in a mirror. Her shorter lover behind her, soft breasts against her back and the terrifying fear that her knees will go from the harsh touches. Over and over, brutally hard, the sound of her body being violated in only pleasant torture. Forcing her knees to lock, bracing herself against the fucking fingers, wondering why her body loves it so much when there’s pain mingled in with pleasure… the rougher jabs inside, pushing her walls backwards, grating across her skin… she wants it, oh she wants it, but she wants to _want_ it more than the thing itself…

Her legs spread wider, and she rocks subtly in the seat, torturing herself with the absence of touch. She remembers the way she’d bitten her noises into a breast, or taken her revenge with her tongue. She remembers not knowing when they’d finish - over and over, tangling to see who got on top… Getting to what felt like the end, only to start all over again… she remembers, and she wants.

She wonders what Kylo must think, if he catches flashes of these thoughts. Does it make him jealous, or does it make him hard?

Or _both_?

She wonders if anyone will be able to tell she’s aroused when she walks off the ship. Wonders if anyone but Kylo will know she’s going right back to her room to fuck herself so hard her legs don’t work.


End file.
